


blackknife

by riverbed



Series: do we not bleed [1]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Blood, D/s themes, Established Relationship, Impact Play, Kink Negotiation, Knifeplay, Knives, M/M, Weapons, a little bit, this is just really decadent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-16
Updated: 2016-02-19
Packaged: 2018-05-21 02:14:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,751
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6034219
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/riverbed/pseuds/riverbed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>alexander has to slip back to move forward.</p><p>or the one in which alexander and john alternately dance around and confront the inevitability of pain.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. promises

Alexander continually finds himself ill-equipped for battle with John Laurens.

They have been marching for what seems like weeks but has really only been a few days, from Harlem to Cross Creek; by this point, their little regiment is exhausted, dirty, and famished. As if by divine intervention, this morning they had come across a wild orchard, seemingly abandoned and its trees overgrown with small, pastel apples, plums dark and fat, pears in the colors of sunrise, shocking yellow and orange.

While Alexander dips his face into a little stream from his place kneeling on its bank, Laurens lies flat on dry grass with a small pile of fruit at his side. He is paring at a plum with his sgian-dubh, scoring a cross into the thin skin and scraping it back with the dull edge.

The skin peels back to reveal a red that reminds Alexander of blood freshly exposed to air, pouring against the skin, and Laurens puts his mouth around it teeth-first, juices running down his chin as he bites down.

Alexander gulps, follows the curves of the little fruit to the point where it’s perpendicular with the blade as John jabs it down into it again, drags his eyes up the glinting steel to the sprawl of John’s elegant fingers, relaxed around the knotted antler of the handle.

Laurens grins at him, feral. His teeth are bright white. “Make time for me tonight, Alexander,” he says guiltlessly.

Hamilton narrows his eyes at him. As if he has anyplace else to go.

His companion finishes the plum and selects a pear from his little stash. He presses the sharp, shallowly serrated edge of the blade directly through the skin and fruit together, coming out the other side against his thumb. He is quick and practiced - he gasps, but does not draw his own blood. He goes at slicing the rest of the pear just as roughly, his eyes bright with concentration.

“Come here,” he says when he’s done, beckoning Hamilton to him. He comes to kneel next to him in the overgrown grass. Alexander sits back on his heels, perfectly still. Laurens holds the pieces of fruit in one hand and reaches out with the other, touches his fingertips to his fellow colonel’s face and taps them along his cheekbone, then trails them down to cup his jaw in his palm. Alexander’s eyes close automatically, and he leans into the tender contact, turning to nuzzle into his hand and press a kiss to the heel of it. He hears Laurens gasp below him and opens his eyes to find him observing him carefully, pupils a bit wide.

He reaches for a slice of pear and Alexander opens his mouth gratefully; John places it on his tongue, waits for a moment to watch its juice leech from the ultra-ripe flesh down onto Hamilton’s lips, then says, “Chew.”

Alexander closes his eyes once again in bliss as he tastes it, a shocking reminder of summer as a child, when things were so much easier.

Why can’t this be easier?

He panics, suddenly, convinced that any of their men could be watching them. He swallows the remainder of the fruit in a hurry. Laurens is looking at him cautiously, like he’s worried that he is about to cry. As is typical, he seems to read his mind.

“It’s all right, Alexander,” he tells him, reaching up again to cradle his cheek. And he’s right - he always is. They are exceedingly careful, nothing the army isn’t used to in public, everything else in unquestionable privacy. Their affection for each other is well-known through the ranks, and this current exchange - lazy and indulgent as it is - would raise no watchful eyebrows.

Besides, certainly nobody would dare to confront Washington’s two closest aides if it did.

Laurens feeds him another slice of pear and eats one of his own as he rationalizes this, and Alexander lets him wrap his hand around the back of his head and pet from the crown to his nape, though his fingers are sticky against his neck. He doesn’t see any reason not to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the [sgian-dubh](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sgian-dubh), also known as the black knife, is a traditional Scottish knife. the place they're headed in this story, Cross Creek (nowadays known as Fayetteville, named after our favorite Marquis) was historically inhabited by many Highlanders. I figure Laurens came across some poor Scot with British sympathies in the woods on a previous trip there and stole the knife from him, and one or both of them came to fetishize it.
> 
> this work is finished; i'll update it every couple of days, probably. it's not very long, all in all, i just feel the chapter breaks fit better than throwing it all into one block to digest at once.


	2. consideration

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> stage iii: bargaining

It had taken Alexander a long time, and a lot of repressed denial, to come to the conclusion that he wanted John Laurens to hurt him.

It had also been a lot of sheer work. He had not expected that at the get, even after all he had worked through on his own, without even involving his friend; convincing John had been exceedingly hard, and the aftermath had been harder, on both of them. That first time had just been a couple of smacks to his face and chest with his hand, and then Laurens had gone wide-eyed with horror as he watched the blood vessels on his cheek fill with a livid red, had stooped down to where Alex had knelt and had reached out tentatively, soothing the delicate skin as if he were trying to calm a wounded, panicking deer.

But Alexander found himself the farthest from wounded he had felt in a long time. The impact of John’s open palm had stung, of course, knocked the wind out of him - and he floated until John’s hand pressed against him again, still a little dizzy when it smoothed its way down to his bare chest. He looked up at him, swaying even on his knees, breathless, craving more as deeply as he had ever craved something and for once, unable to ask for it.

That was the first time Alexander can remember Laurens misreading him. He had refused to touch him for two weeks, even dodging Alexander’s usual embraces, an arm thrown around his shoulders in mixed company now a great offense.

It had been his own fear, he had admitted when Alexander finally confronted him, as he had been hurt and angry, the prolonged lack of physical affection with his Laurens boring a hole into his heart. He had been worried he had irrevocably damaged their relationship in asking John for this, had crossed some line he had misjudged and in doing so scared John enough to run from him like a spooked horse, and that they would never repair this new rift between them. He had continued to be livid with John even after they discussed it - he didn’t understand why he would not just have discussed the matter with him, instead of sheepishly avoiding his gaze, shrugging out of his hugs.

Eventually his affection overcame his temper, and as they reconciled, John had whispered, voice broken, that he was afraid of hurting him.

Alexander had kissed him insistently, lips bruising, and smiled in understanding after. He had tucked a curl behind Laurens’ ear and told him what he needed, asked if John would try.

John said yes.


	3. fulfillment

In the evening they retire early, setting up their officers’ tent a little ways into the woods and well away from the enlisted men, who camp in the open field of the old orchard.

John builds a fire while Alexander undresses and wades again into the stream, lying back to float and rinse his hair. He shivers as he emerges, and John admires his thighs as he pulls his leggings back on. Alexander has lost so much weight at war, as they all have, and his small body is now mostly taut muscle, hidden cleverly in his lean frame. Laurens finds the contrast of his gentleness, his warmth and generosity and easy smile, with his utter deadliness absolutely dizzying as he drags his eyes down the knots of his calves.

“We should reach Cross Creek by midafternoon, no?” Alexander asks, coming to sit next to John at the fireside.

John nods, distracted by the tan painting Hamilton’s chest and shoulders. He tsks, feeling Alexander shiver as he puts his hands on him, palms up, to trace over it with his knuckles. “You’ve spent too much time out of your uniform, Alexander.”

Alexander offers a mischievous grin, looking up through his eyelashes, managing somehow to appear very small. Prey to be attacked. Wildness to be tamed.

Alexander’s hand has wandered up John’s own torso under his jacket, from his hip up his side, and now he withdraws it, John’s stolen Scottish knife clasped in it. He twirls it between his fingers, the scabbard threatening to separate from the handle. Alexander has this playful look in his eyes, staring straight at John as he messes with his unique sidearm.

“Have you sharpened this recently? It’s important to do it regularly, otherwise it’ll go dull and useless.” He pops the scabbard off, discarding the pocket of leather behind the log they are sitting on.

“Would you like me to test it, Alexander?” John spits. He knows the answer.

The next few moments are a blur, but they find themselves arranged in the soft grass in the dim light of the fire, Hamilton on his stomach and John straddling his hips, resting on Alexander’s thighs, effectively pinning him with his strong legs out of commission.

Alexander turns his head to the side to clear the way for his breath, licks his lips. They still taste faintly of sweet, heady pear.

John has the knife in his hand, its sheath dangerously missing. He drags the cool metal, flat on its side, down Alexander’s spine, stopping at the small of his back to roll the clipped point up and rotate it back and forth, so that the very tip digs only slightly into the vulnerable skin there. Alexander shudders.

“Laurens…”

“Shh.” John pushes the knife against his shoulder blade, now, where the bone is close to the skin. He lets him feel how responsible he is with his things, how meticulously he sharpens his blades. Everything is a game to Alexander; it is a coping mechanism, an outlet for his frustration.

But so is this, and John takes things seriously, observes and notes, and he knows from experience that this is more effective.

Crickets chirp around them as darkness falls. The firelight throws stark shadows in illuminating the elegant curve of Alexander’s back, highlighting the shining beads of sweat that have begun to gather in the dips of his hipbones. John moves the knife there, still toying with possibility, not committing yet; he lets Alexander wonder, hears him gasp as he exerts the slightest pressure with the zigzag of the blade and pulls down, still gently.

“Do you think it’s sharp enough, Alexander?” he teases, smirking as he drags the tip up his back again to rest between his shoulders.

Alexander mumbles something, but the way he does his best to shimmy his hips, reluctant to unseat John but attempting to grind down against the ground for friction, is a clear affirmative. John chuckles, and he means to do so darkly, but he is overcome with affection.

“Alexander,” he says in the voice that means he is demanding his attention. Alexander goes still.

The man could always follow a command.

“How much do you need?” He knows it’s not much. He knows Alexander has been craving this since they set out from New York, knows he has worked himself practically into a frenzy, knows he only needs John to spur it along, hasten the end, to be there when it all falls apart.

“I need… just keep going,” he says mournfully, panting as he starts to wiggle his hips again. John places a hand on the small of his back, a reminder. Hamilton’s body freezes up, but he rolls his shoulders to relax, and John nods, taking a deep breath and leaning down to get a better view of his work.

He digs the point of the blade into the skin just to the left of an old wound on Alexander’s side, scratching the back of his opposite upper arm with his nails to balance the pain. Alexander pines like a beast as he breaks the surface, breathes out hard through his nostrils and somehow seems to press himself more fully to the ground, his back a flatter canvas.

John holds him steady and chooses a different spot, still on the same side, the dip of his back where it will smart but not scar when it heals up. He bristles at the idea of leaving lasting marks on his Alexander, even though he knows Alexander loves the thought of being claimed visibly, of being able to eye himself bare in a mirror and remember, trace his finger over a scar. Always revisiting his pain, Hamilton. Outwardly driven, a man of the future, but in private John knows the reason he strives so desperately for the new world - he is running from his past, the heartache and betrayal the world has shown him endlessly.

He cannot make Alexander understand that he will not be able to embrace the next era, when it comes, with the ghosts he invites in surrounding him, so he settles for this, for the thing that seems to make him forget the most at once. This is the best he can do for him that he’s found so far. He is happy to do it, to watch Alexander writhe and breathe. After they do this, John often wakes in the middle of the night and finds that Alexander has forgotten to dream; he will study his face and find none of its usual hard-set lines, the twitching eyelids that signal he is alert in a nightmare. In those moments, he kisses the upturn of the corner of Alexander’s mouth and smooths his hair, sleeps peacefully through the rest of the night himself.

The next time John nicks Alexander’s flesh, it draws a low moan from him, and John observes that he has sunk so far into wherever it is he goes when they do this that he remains perfectly still now not by forcing himself but because his body is so slack, so heavy and relaxed. He admires the way the tiny pinprick of blood seeps from the break in the smooth browned cream of Alexander’s skin. He presses his thumb against it to ebb the bleeding, but it makes Alexander hiss, and he presses harder.

“Are you all right?” He knows it will interrupt Hamilton but he cannot help his concern; he has to check in. Alexander has come to accept this.

“Yes,” he insists, forces himself to reassure John even though speaking at this point is a nearly impossible task. “Please. John. Don’t. Stop.” Each word is edged as fine and sharp as John’s knife, and he finds it hard to argue.

He slits another cut on Alexander’s back, this time low, near his hips and toward the center, where he knows he will not expect it. He goes slow, dragging the blade about two inches before letting up and letting Alexander arch his back sharply, and Alexander cries out, gasping and panting, trying to move, trying to prop himself up on his elbows but he hasn’t the strength, and John watches him come undone as he bleeds, feels the way his body tightens and then shakes loose beneath him. He runs his hands across his skin to soothe him out of reverie and back to him, helps him sit up when the time comes, careful not to let him roll onto his back and get dirt in the fresh wounds.

Alexander looks at him glassy-eyed, his lips bitten raw and his cheeks flushed a scarlet to match them. John looks him up and down, checks his front for bruises where he was pressed to the ground. Satisfied, he presses a kiss to Alexander’s warm forehead. He wraps his arms around Alexander’s neck, kneeling over him while Alexander sits cross-legged. He feels the marked lack of tension in the shoulders, rubs his strong hands into the loosened muscles. Hamilton groans, tilts his head up to catch John in a kiss, shockingly hesitant and pliant.

John kisses him, desperately enough, he hopes, for Alexander to understand that he wants to be a part of his future, that he is not a part of the past and that no matter how hard the man looks, he won’t find him there. He can match Hamilton in his stubbornness when he needs to, leading him onward when he is tempted to fall back.

Hamilton pulls away to look up at him, wide-eyed, and stares at John with bare exhaustion as he strokes his jaw. He sees a flicker of something flash across his brown eyes, and thinks, perhaps, that Hamilton might finally have promised to march forward.


End file.
